


The Waiting Game

by Sixthlight



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: F/M, Implied Peter Grant/Thomas Nightingale, Incipient polyamory, M/M, Multi, Post-The Hanging Tree, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, offscreen character injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 11:09:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11356263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sixthlight/pseuds/Sixthlight
Summary: “I know it wasn’t," Peter says. "I know she went in the river and she’ll be fine, but it’s just not supposed to - you or me, that’s different, we’re just human and it’s ourjob. But she’s not supposed to get hurt, she never has before."





	The Waiting Game

Thomas drives Peter back to Beverley’s house; there’s no question of where he wants to be tonight. When they get there, Peter doesn’t get out of the Jag right away, sits staring at nothing for a moment before he asks if Thomas would like to come in. 

“I could use a cup of tea, or something,” says Thomas, who couldn’t really but knows Peter needs something to do. While Peter is in the kitchen, he opens the back door and looks out. It’s coming on rapidly for Midsummer’s Day and still light even at this late hour; he can see all Beverley’s garden furniture, the way the lawn is halfway to a meadow - Peter probably just thinks it’s overgrown - and the still deep pool down the far end where the willows bend over her river, but there’s no sign of her. He hadn’t expected it yet anyway. 

He’s startled by a loud crash from the kitchen, almost deafening, and a second later he’s in the doorway. Peter is standing by the sink, hands gripping the edge of the bench and his head bowed, and there are pots all over the floor. 

“It’s fine, it’s  _fine,”_ Peter says, not turning around. “I just bumped the drying rack and they all –  _fuck_ it.” He kicks at one just next to his foot and it goes spinning. 

“Careful,” Thomas says, stooping to pick up the nearest one, “or I’ll tell Molly I’ve seen you treating good kitchenware like that.” The electric jug goes  _click_ ; so Peter had got that far. That’s probably a good sign. 

Peter chokes out what might be a laugh, then abruptly sighs, and starts helping to pick things up. That’s always startled Thomas; Peter’s ability to pack everything neatly back inside himself and keep going. It’s a habit that takes most people a lot longer to develop. 

“It wouldn’t, you know, help,” Peter says abruptly. “If Bev wasn’t - if she was here right now she’d give me a look, and then she’d probably be telling me to go and throw these in the garden or, or beat up a tree until I felt better, but it doesn’t help, she’d still have been hurt and I’d still be waiting for her to come back and then I’d have to go fetch them all. It never helps.” 

“It depends what you’re trying to help,” Thomas says. “Where do these go?”

Peter cracks a wry smile at that. “Wherever. Bev’s not much for - I keep meaning to organise this but I haven’t got around to it. That cupboard’ll do.” 

“You go and sit down,” says Thomas. “I’ll finish with the tea.” 

“No,” Peter says firmly. “No, I can handle that much,” and he sets the jug to boil again and goes through the motions with teabags and milk and mugs and Thomas lets him, because that was the point, wasn’t it, to let him settle back into his own skin. 

They go into the living room and Thomas sits on the sofa next to Peter, instead of taking the armchair. He’d half expected Peter to shift and make room, but Peter stays where he is, so close they’re almost touching, so close he can feel the warmth of Peter’s leg and hip through their clothing. He thinks it’s the closest Peter is going to let himself get to asking for physical comfort, right now. 

“It wasn’t that bad,” Thomas says, “from the way you described it. Much less damage than Ash took, and you know he recovered perfectly well.”

“He had a fucking iron railing through his heart,” says Peter. “I know it wasn’t - I know she went in the river and she’ll be fine, but it’s just not supposed to - you or me, that’s different, we’re just human and it’s our  _job_. But she’s not supposed to get hurt, she never has before, and now that absolute  _fucker_  thinks he can go after - someday I’m going to stop wanting to arrest him.” 

Thomas hasn’t had any real intention of arresting Martin Chorley for years now, except insomuch as it’s the thing Peter thinks is right to do, and hearing that gives him a vague sense of unease; he hadn’t realised that he  _needs_  Peter to keep thinking it’s the right thing to do. 

“You’re quite welcome,” says Thomas, “to suggest to Beverley that she attempts in some way to stay out of this particular conflict - I don’t think she endeavours to put herself in harm’s way, really - but I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“Do I look stupid?” Peter asks incredulously. “No, don’t answer that.” 

“No, Peter, you don’t,” Thomas says, takes a second to study Peter properly, the strain in his face, the way he’s holding on to his mug of tea like it’s a lifeline, the suspicious dampness in his eyes, the way his tie’s come askew. 

Peter doesn’t seem to know what to say to this, and ducks his head. 

“You probably need to get going,” he says eventually. 

“I’m not finished,” says Thomas, hefting his own mug. “Unless you’d rather I went. I suspect Beverley probably won’t want company when she makes it back.” 

“No,” says Peter, after a long pause. “No, if you - can you stay?” 

*

Beverley walks in while they’re eating; Peter had disclaimed being hungry, appeared to agree to order something in for Thomas’s sake - Thomas spent too long as a soldier to avoid eating when he can - and then cleared his plate as soon as the food arrived. 

“I hope you saved some for me,” says Beverley. She looks a bit wan and she’s moving stiffly, but the worst of the injuries are definitely gone. She’s dripping on the floor, but Thomas supposes it  _is_  her own floor and she can drip where she likes. 

“Bev,” says Peter, a bit strangled, and then “ _Bev_.” He stands up and buries his face in her shoulder, curling around her heedless of how waterlogged it might get him. 

“It’s okay,” she says, gently. “I’m okay. I’m fucking  _furious_ , but I’m okay.” Her voice is even, but she's clutching him as hard as he is her. 

“I’m afraid we didn’t succeed in containing Chorley,” says Thomas, picking up the third plate they’d got out and starting to serve food onto it. 

“Figures,” she says. When Peter lets go of her, and she of him, she sits cross-legged on the floor. “Here; I’m starving.” Thomas hands her the plate; it would probably be ruder to disclaim obligation in her house and imply she was a guest there than to not do it, so he doesn’t. Apparently Beverley agrees with this interpretation, since she digs in. Peter sinks back onto the couch, as close to her as he can get. 

“I’m still going to sleep for a week, though,” she adds. “Ugh.” 

“Aren’t you going to ask what he’s doing here?” says Peter, nodding at Thomas. 

“He was staying with you,” says Beverley. “Why - was there another reason?” 

“Well, I made him tea, and he hasn’t finished it,” says Peter, nodding at the mug Thomas left half-full on the coffee table. Beverley does not appear to own coasters. Thomas wonders if Molly would miss a few. 

“Oh, of  _course.”_ Beverley rolls her eyes. “That’s definitely why he hasn’t left yet.” 

“No,” says Thomas, to Beverley. “No, there wasn’t any other reason.”

"Obviously," she says, taking another mouthful of food.  

“You can’t just  _say_  that,” says Peter, sounding almost outraged. 

Thomas grins at him, the weight of the evening slowly starting to lift, now Beverley has reappeared, if not unharmed, then recovering. “I think, actually, you’ll find I can.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a Tumblr prompt - I'm trying to slowly move all my short pieces there to here.


End file.
